<!DOCTYPE html>
<html>
<head>
<meta charset="UTF-8">
<title>Practice Makes Perfect by les Amis DCD (AlmostARealHobbit)</title>
<style type="text/css">

body { background-color: #ffffff; }
.CI {
text-align:center;
margin-top:0px;
margin-bottom:0px;
padding:0px;
}
.center   {text-align: center;}
.cover    {text-align: center;}
.full     {width: 100%; }
.quarter  {width: 25%; }
.smcap    {font-variant: small-caps;}
.u        {text-decoration: underline;}
.bold     {font-weight: bold;}
</style>
</head>
<body>
<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27458536">Practice Makes Perfect</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlmostARealHobbit/pseuds/les%20Amis%20DCD'>les Amis DCD (AlmostARealHobbit)</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Les Misérables - All Media Types</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Couch Cuddles, Domestic Fluff, Fluff, M/M, Mention of Mental Illness, Morning Cuddles, Sleepy Cuddles, basically cuddles and not much else, it's a thing i did, trans!Enjolras, yes i did just write my own bad brain day and dumped it onto Grantaire</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-11-08</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-11-08</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 17:20:48</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>6,992</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27458536</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlmostARealHobbit/pseuds/les%20Amis%20DCD</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>“They show each other the way they need to be loved, and they each learn religiously. They’ll get it wrong sometimes, they know, but all learners stumble every now and then; it is practice that makes perfect. They take to everything a relationship entails, they’re here for each other when things go south, and when things go great, too. But even things that come easily need practice, honing, learning. And Grantaire quickly figures out his favourite thing to practice.”</p><p>Cuddles. That’s the plot, or lack thereof.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Enjolras/Grantaire (Les Misérables)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>18</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>63</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Practice Makes Perfect</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>"Finish your original novel for NaNoWriMo!" she said. and what is she doing? wrote 2 Les Mis oneshots, working on a third fic. Boo me.</p><p>As always, massive thank you to my ride-or-die betas <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/cantando_siempre/pseuds/cantando_siempre">cantando-siempre</a> and <a href="https://demourir.tumblr.com">demourir</a> for all their help and for being amazing!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>It’s still so new, so precious, and yet it also feels like this has been going on for ages, like they’ve just gotten home after a long walk side by side. Like slowly sliding into love without putting up any sort of resistance against their slow and determined descent. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>To say that the start of their friendship had been rocky would be an understatement; they’d spent a long time hitting walls, focusing too much on the distance between them and not enough on the fact that they were both clumsily trying to bridge it. But they both have a good sense of direction, and eventually, they’d done it. They’d first come together in begrudging understanding, because they simply had to bear one another for the sake of their common friends. Later, they had joined in friendship, in a deep platonic love which had morphed into a romantic one over the years —a little on its own volition, and a little from the care, the attention, the touches, the support they’d shown one another. And after months of friendly outings turning into dates, of subconsciously reaching for each other’s hand under the table, they’d found one another in a new way, and they’d joined in love like they had in the rest.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It has been so long in coming that the transition is easy as breathing. Kissing each other’s mouth instead of a cheek when they greet is only a matter of centimetres to the left, and kissing each other’s mouth simply because they want to feels just as natural —almost too much so. At times, it feels like they won’t be able to stop. Grantaire is sure that, if they didn’t have lives to live, they might not stop at all. In fact, Grantaire is pretty set on the idea that jobs and friends and activism are pretty overrated, when it feels like it is Enjolras who is breathing life into him, one breath, one touch of his tongue at a time. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They show each other the way they need to be loved, and they each learn religiously. They’ll get it wrong sometimes, they know, but all learners stumble every now and then; it is practice that makes perfect. They take to everything a relationship entails, they’re here for each other when things go south, and when things go great, too. But even things that come easily need practice, honing, learning. And Grantaire quickly figures out his favourite thing to practice.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Like that?” he asks Enjolras as he burrows his way back into Grantaire’s arms, though there isn’t any space parting them already.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mmhh, comfy,” Enjolras slurs; he’s already drifting off. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Grantaire snorts and kisses Enjolras’ hair where the curls are pressed under his own nose.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I know you’re all for innovation and knocking down the establishment, but there’s something to be said about the classics, sometimes. I can tell this one is going to get a good grade.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s Enjolras’ turn to snort. “Good, ‘cause I’m not moving now.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Good,” Grantaire repeats, and he’s glad that Enjolras’s back is facing him, because he really cannot bring himself to hide his smile. He’s sure he looks like a loon.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Good,” Enjolras says, too, but he’s interrupted by a yawn, “night.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Grantaire wishes him one too, and he knows it will be good.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He wakes to a mouthful of blond curls, and though his senses are returning to him quickly, one of his arms remains resolutely asleep. Enjolras doesn’t stir, and Grantaire tries to blow his hair out of his mouth as discreetly as he can. Enjolras is usually the first up; he’s a fitful sleeper and he’s always up with the sun during the week, though with Grantaire as an incentive, he’s been getting progressively better at pretending that the sun rises later and later. This is a Saturday, however, and Saturdays are sleep-in days, even for Enjolras. And Grantaire, who may pretend otherwise and joke about it frequently, is no fool. If Enjolras is asleep, he’ll take in the sight of him in his rest, his touch and his warmth, and he’ll savour it all quietly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>This position, he realises as the tingling feeling in his arm doesn’t seem to be going anywhere, just got his second negative point. Grantaire may enjoy the contact —how close they are to each other, with one arm thrown around Enjolras’ waist and the other serving as a pillow, with Enjolras’ back stuck to Grantaire’s front —but this view is lacking. Enjolras’ curls are lovely, the loveliest, really —Grantaire could easily wax poetics about them and he may have already done so on occasion, with the help of Jehan— but they’re nothing compared to his face. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>In the end, Grantaire is glad when Enjolras shifts and turns just enough to look back and greet Grantaire. There it is. All mussed, his eyes still half-hooded, with a little bit of muck at the corner and an unmistakable track of dried drool to his chin, and still so very perfect. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Morning breath be damned, Grantaire leans forward to steal a good morning kiss. He makes a poor burglar; Enjolras’ kisses are so easily given when Grantaire is their recipient. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Good morning,” Enjolras croaks.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Slept well?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Enjolras turns entirely onto his back and stretches out like a lazy cat, and he’s not far off with that comparison, really; he often comes off as aloof, he loves lazing in the sun and pets to his hair, and he’s got the most unimpressed and judgemental look Grantaire has ever seen on a human face.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Like a baby,” he says. “You?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Grantaire hums. “Like on a cloud. A very warm, very blond, very curly cloud.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So, good?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, pretty good,” Grantaire agrees. “Though the cloud was a bit heavy on my arm by morning. Actually, can you give said arm back to me? It’s completely asleep.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Enjolras makes a show of thinking about it from where he still uses Grantaire’s arm as a pillow. “Hm, no. I think I’ll keep it. It’s mine, now.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Grantaire laughs. “Oh, it’s all yours, I promise. But can it be mine again for, like, two minutes?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“If you must,” Enjolras sighs dramatically, though he’s smiling as widely as Grantaire knows himself to be, too. He lifts his head just long enough for Grantaire to free his numb arm, and settles once more as close as he can. “I’ll make you pay a fee, for that, you realise?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Pay?” Grantaire says, feigning shock. “For my own arm? You capitalistic demon.” He shakes his head along with his hand, flexes his fingers to gain feeling back.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“When the currency is kisses, you can call me Jeff Bezos. I’m </span>
  <em>
    <span>ruthless</span>
  </em>
  <span>.” Grantaire has to laugh. This is so endearing, so lovely, and he feels so lucky, his tenderness bubbles over in laughter. Not many get to see the ever serious Enjolras under this light. Grantaire feels like he knows the very secret of life, of existence at its core: Enjolras in love is positively </span>
  <em>
    <span>silly</span>
  </em>
  <span>, and unashamedly so. “So pay up, or I might have to charge interest.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That doesn’t sound legal, sir.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But Grantaire doesn’t really have to be told twice. He bends down over his boyfriend, holding himself up on his good elbow, and kisses him once, twice, thrice. Slow enough to feel like a dozen, just languid little things that feel so big, like they contain so much; they make Enjolras sigh in pleasure. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So, verdict on the cuddling position?” Enjolras asks when they pull back to finally breathe air that the other hasn’t breathed out yet.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Right, back to our scientific study. Hmm so… On a scale from 10 to ‘Enjolras’—“</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No!” Enjolras nudges at Grantaire, but he’s laughing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hey, that’s an official, very serious unit of measurement. Scientists have spent some time working on it, so don’t be rude,” Grantaire says from where he’s still leaning over Enjolras. “So as I was saying, on a scale from 10 to Enjolras, I would give spooning a solid 17. I like the proximity, the warmth and stuff, but I nearly lost my arm to it, and I think I swallowed some of your hair. Also, I couldn’t see your face,” he reasons. “You?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, that was a solid ‘Grantaire’ to me.” Enjolras smiles.</span>
</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p><br/>
<br/>
<span>Grantaire twists to get a better view of the TV screen, and huffs when he only manages to catch two thirds of it —the last has been surrendered to a nest of blond curls. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hey, Enjolras,” Grantaire says. Enjolras hums distractedly from where he is tucked, torso folded against Grantaire’s side and his head nestled against Grantaire’s neck. The vibration of it resonates in Grantaire’s throat —the contentment rolling from him and into Grantaire is </span>
  <em>
    <span>almost </span>
  </em>
  <span>enough to make him lose his train of thought, but not quite. “Can you get off, please?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’s been on Grantaire’s lap for the better part of the film they’re watching, most of which Grantaire has only been able to catch glimpses of. This he doesn’t mind overly much —he’s seen the film twice already, and it’s not even that good to begin with. Mostly, he was ready to cuddle Enjolras and possibly let themselves be carried away with the canoodling, but he’s not even sure he’d be able to enjoy said canoodling anymore.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“My thighs are killing me,” he says, gesturing to his lap.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m not that heavy,” Enjolras protests, though he lets himself slide back onto the sofa immediately. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, you’re not. But do you think Combeferre or Joly could sneakily have you do a full X-ray? I don't think normal humans are supposed to have so many sharp bones.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Enjolras levels him a half-hearted glare and raises an unimpressed eyebrow, but Grantaire notices the twitch of his mouth. It hasn’t been that long that they’ve been properly together, but Grantaire has been watching Enjolras for so long. He knows him by heart, like a well-loved book —Grantaire has run his hands over the pages countless times, but he’s only beginning to dog-ear them, to leave his little marks of love in the corners. From that little upturn of Enjolras’ mouth, Grantaire knows he’s up to no good.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Please</span>
  </em>
  <span>, you love it when I bone you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Grantaire snorts, and if Enjolras weren’t already off his lap, Grantaire would push him. Instead, he settles for  nearly shoving him off the sofa. Enjolras yelps.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You absolute weirdo, I love you,” Grantaire says, and he pulls Enjolras in to kiss him soundlessly. They’ve said it before, words of love, but it’s still so new, so fresh, it feels like a first time every time one of them is brave enough to say it, to make himself so entirely vulnerable. They’ve been spare with those three words so far, though not because of doubt in their own feelings, only just by cowardice. This is why the air is knocked out of Grantaire’s chest when, in between kisses, Enjolras laughs, and answers “I love you, I love you”, as though he cannot bring himself to stop.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When Grantaire is being pushed back to lay onto the sofa and Enjolras carefully straddles his lap to just about devour him, Grantaire thinks that this particular cuddling position might be shit, but it still gets an ‘Enjolras’ from him, just for the breathless “I love yous” Enjolras won’t stop repeating, punctuating each of his kisses.</span>
</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>
  <span>Grantaire notices it immediately, the tell-tale signs of Enjolras’ seasonal cold. It comes every year without a fail, rolling in when the first wave of chill hits Paris. Grantaire knew the signs long before he and Enjolras started dating, and over the years, he’d volunteered to take care of him. He’s glad he doesn’t have to volunteer anymore, so very glad for the way it naturally falls onto him now, the way no one questions it anymore.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When Enjolras arrives at the latest Les Amis meeting and he can’t quite manage a full minute without sniffling, Grantaire knows he’ll need to pack tissues in the next few days, and he plans to make soup as soon as they get home. When Enjolras starts sneezing, he inevitably denies having a cold. This, too, is part of the typical signs. They all have long decided against arguing with him on that first day, not when they all know how poorly he’ll be feeling the next.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He does feel terrible when he wakes on the next day. Grantaire can tell from the way Enjolras breathes out of his mouth, his nostrils useless already. Grantaire runs the pad of his thumb against his boyfriend’s nostrils, an index along the slope of it, just a light caress —he enjoys it while he still can; it will be red and chafed from the tissues long before the end of the day. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>When they reach this point, Enjolras doesn’t try to pretend he’s feeling well. He, too, knows what comes next: his friends and his now boyfriend will be unrelenting; they’ll force him to rest, drink plenty of water, and take medicine. If anything, he’s glad his cold had the decency to show up on the weekend. His date plans with Grantaire may be ruined, but they can reschedule, and at least he has the comfort of knowing Grantaire won’t be missing work to keep him company —he knows Grantaire would. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>After lying in for most of the morning, Enjolras wrapped tightly in their duvet —if Grantaire is chilled, he doesn’t say, he simply holds that nest of blanket as tightly as he can— they get up to eat. Grantaire makes him tea, and he adds a generous amount of honey. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“My throat doesn’t hurt, you know,” Enjolras tells him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Grantaire hums and shrugs noncommittally as he stirs the honey to have it dissolve in the cup. The chunks take some time: the honey is a little grainy, but Jehan is proud of their bees’ work (“do you see how well they’re doing out there, in the middle of a city? Look at how good they are!”) and they’re still learning how to not have their honey crystallise too quickly. It tastes amazing anyway, so they’re not too fussed about the texture. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You don’t believe me?” Enjolras asks, almost accusingly. He tends to be grumpy when he’s feeling poorly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh no, I do. Your throat isn’t hurting now, but it’ll be sore by tomorrow. Drinking lemon and honey now can’t hurt,” Grantaire says, two steaming cups of tea in hands as he walks back to Enjolras, bundled up on the sofa.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Enjolras huffs out a frustrated breath, one of those he can’t quite fight off when someone just proved him wrong by stating the obvious. There’s no contradicting a statement such as Grantaire’s, and arguing is in Enjolras’ nature as much as it is in Grantaire’s. They’re similar like that. Even polar opposites share something, perhaps much more than one would suspect: they might stand back to back, but they’re both magnets, in the end.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Grantaire settles on the free spot of the sofa and hands Enjolras his cup; he reaches for it by snaking a slender hand out from the tight burrito of his blanket. A random, used tissue comes out, too, which Enjolras stubbornly ignores as if to signify “no comment” to Grantaire, who desperately wants to comment anyway. He knows Enjolras wouldn’t truly mind —they were bickering like an old couple long before they were a couple at all, and Enjolras fell in love with Grantaire all the same.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Grantaire takes a careful sip of his tea to force himself to remain silent. They sip their drinks in companionable silence, only interrupted by Enjolras’ curses each time he forgets to swallow air with gulps of tea and burns his tongue. Grantaire watches him with no small amount of fond exasperation dancing in his eyes, and Enjolras flips him the bird without even bothering to look up. He sneezes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Come on,” Grantaire says when they’re done with their tea and he’s set the empty cups on the coffee table, “lay down.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Enjolras complies as Grantaire manœuvres him in the way he wants to. When Enjolras has his head pillowed in Grantaire’s lap and his long legs hanging off from the couch, Grantaire picks up the book he’d left on the armrest. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ready?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hm hmm.” Enjolras nods.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>So Grantaire holds the book with one hand, flips the pages expertly with nimble fingers and sometimes the help of his chin, while his other hand drops on his lap and dives deep into Enjolras’ hair. Enjolras goes boneless immediately, completely and entirely relaxed, silent but for his regular sniffles.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The room is filled by Grantaire’s voice as he reads on. Their bubble is composed of a lapful of curls, of fingers scratching soothingly against a scalp, of the hand Enjolras rests between Grantaire’s pyjama-clad thighs to keep his fingers warm, and of Sartre. It’s an author Grantaire likes better than Enjolras —their philosophies are much more compatible than Enjolras’ own optimistic line of thinking —but Enjolras listens for an admirably long time. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>After a while, Grantaire knows he’s lost him. His eyes have fluttered closed, his entire body is loose, and if he could purr, he would. Instead, he makes little hums at the back of his throat, and Grantaire has never been more in love. He tells him, too, because he can, and because it doesn’t matter if Enjolras is too deeply asleep to hear him. He thinks the deepest reaches of Enjolras’ consciousness would hear him anyway, and if not, he knows —gods know that Grantaire tells him often enough, nowadays. But Enjolras shifts from his side to his back and looks up at Grantaire with a heartbreakingly soft smile. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That,” he says, gesturing towards Grantaire’s lap, the book, and finally dropping a hand on the one Grantaire still has burrowed in his hair, “is a ‘Grantaire’ to me again.”</span>
</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>
  <span>Grantaire pushes Enjolras off of him from where he was lying all over his front. Enjolras makes a disgruntled noise and throws him a betrayed look, while Grantaire rubs at his hips.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Fuck, Enjolras, do your hipbones have teeth? I’m not even bothering to rate that one.”</span>
</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s one of those days. It’s hard to pull a word from Grantaire as he furiously lathers paint onto a canvas, an unsatisfied frown set deeply between his brows. It’s obvious his painting is doing a terrible job at distracting him, and not working at all like he intended it to. Thoughts are running through his mind, showing on his face more clearly than his acrylic shows on the canvas. They’re eating at him, deepening his frown with each passing minute, until Grantaire throws his brush back into his mug of water with a heavy sigh.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Enjolras has been remaining as quiet as he can realistically be, too. It</span>
  <em>
    <span> is</span>
  </em>
  <span> one of those days, which means that any word, however well-meaning, is likely to be processed negatively, turned to the worst and mulled over obsessively by Grantaire’s brain. Grantaire is the one asking for minimal conversation, on those days. He knows himself, and he knows when his brain won’t cooperate. He doesn’t want to give it any chance to turn against his own boyfriend in anxiety and pain. So Enjolras remains silent, only throwing anxious looks to Grantaire every other minute. He looks like he’s dying to reassure Grantaire, to soothe him with words of love, but he trusts Grantaire to know best what he needs and what he doesn’t. He’s been getting good at it, too. Those days grow ever fewer, much to both their relief. But sometimes, they happen, and they </span>
  <em>
    <span>suck</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Fuck,” Grantaire says, both disgusted by his own work and frustrated at his own struggling mind. When he gets this way, he feels as though he’s trapped in quicksand, pulled deeper and deeper in an excruciating, slow drag, until all his eyes can see is coarse, dark sand. Sometimes, he is offered a helping hand, but he’s so blinded by it all, so lost in the sand and in the oppressive heat that the hand feels like a trap, a mirage made to only push him further down, to bury him until he chokes. So Grantaire slaps that hand away, lashes out, and swallows a mouthful of sand in the process. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He feels so trapped, so lost, and he looks so miserable that Enjolras eventually gives up and gives in. He pushes his laptop away and stands, takes a few strides with his long legs, and stops only when he reaches Grantaire’s side. He puts a hand on his shoulder, one he wants to be comforting, and asks with a voice softer than he knew himself capable of:</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Grantaire, do you trust me? I won’t talk if it makes you feel worse,” he says, “but would you like to be held? You look like you could use it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Grantaire opens his mouth sharply, and Enjolras regrets it immediately. He can see the cogs of Grantaire’s treacherous mind over-analysing it, taking a simple sentence to twist it and protest, to scream: </span>
  <em>
    <span>“Because I look like shit? I don’t need pity.” </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m sor—” Enjolras starts.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Grantaire closes his mouth, his eyes, he gulps. He tries to reach for the hand that’s not pushing him down, but still holding onto his shoulder, so warm and grounding, like a lifeline.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s okay,” he says eventually. “I know that’s not what you meant. I </span>
  <em>
    <span>know</span>
  </em>
  <span> it.” He says it like he’s trying to convince himself, to remind himself that Enjolras’ hand has stopped trying to tear him apart in frustration several years ago. That it’s been the single most comforting thing Grantaire has ever held in his life, and that it will remain so for a long, long time. He clears his throat. “Being held sounds good.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>So Grantaire takes Enjolras’ hand away from his shoulder and twines their fingers together to allow himself to be pulled up from his stool and out of the trap of his mind. He lets himself be guided into their bedroom, and he lets himself be pushed on the bed so very gently. He allows Enjolras to arrange him on his side, facing the wall, and to climb behind him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I love you,” says Enjolras after a long moment of silence once they’re settled. “And you can tell that to your mind —it doesn’t get to twist this around, </span>
  <em>
    <span>no one </span>
  </em>
  <span>does. </span>
  <em>
    <span>I love you</span>
  </em>
  <span>.” His voice is so resolute, so sure, that in spite of his best effort, Grantaire finds that he truly cannot misinterpret that. It’s clear and it’s safe. He nods, because he doesn’t quite trust himself to speak yet, and he squeezes Enjolras’ hand in his own.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They remain tangled that way for a long time, longer than either of them know or care to count. Enjolras brings his legs to Grantaire’s and slips one through them to come even closer. With his foot, he caresses Grantaire’s calf in long, soothing strokes, in time with his hand, which is rubbing against Grantaire’s soft belly, petting the coarse hair there, kneading along in comfort.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Enjolras lets his body speak for himself, this— this is a language Grantaire cannot distort; it’s the truest, most sincere and vulnerable tongue he knows, one he’s only starting to learn himself alongside Grantaire, one he’s sure he’ll be fluent in before long. They’ll need it, over the years, so that nothing gets lost in translation as words do, sometimes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Grantaire remains entirely still, and for a long time he feels so small, oddly so in Enjolras’ bony arms, trapped in his spidery limbs. Until finally, he feels himself grow, more into himself, more into something worth Enjolras’ hold, until he returns the caresses with his socked feet, the strokes with a trembling, feather-light finger over Enjolras’ wrist.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It isn’t great, it isn’t perfect. Grantaire still feels like he might burst out into sobs at any given moment, his mind still holds his self-esteem and trust in others captive in a tight grip, but he feels infinitely warmer, bigger, and safer where he is. There is no sand in this bed; Enjolras made sure to dust it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Grantaire stops the movement of Enjolras’ hand and brings it to his mouth. He kisses his palm, the back of it, the pads of his fingers, and says, “You were right, you know.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Enjolras waits a breath or two before answering, shaken by the shattering of the silence, this invitation to speak. “What about?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The spooning position. I gave it a what, 17? 18?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“When you were the big spoon, yes.” Enjolras nods against the back of Grantaire’s neck. It feels like a nuzzle, and what is accidental can be wonderful, sometimes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, and you gave it top marks,” Grantaire says hesitantly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“A full ‘Grantaire’,” Enjolras agrees, because it was. Grantaire’s arms are so strong, so comfortingly heavy, Enjolras doesn’t ever feel safer than he does when Grantaire holds him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah,” and that comes out choked off, a bit wet and a bit timid in equal parts. “Well, I changed my mind, spooning is worth an ‘Enjolras’, too.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Enjolras smiles, though Grantaire cannot see him. He’s sure he can hear it anyway, it coats his voice entirely when he says, “Even if we’re not facing each other?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It is Grantaire’s turn to make a pause, a long one, punctuated by shaky breaths, by his mouth opening and closing, as if he’s thinking twice before saying what he intends to say. It takes work to be like that, vulnerable and honest on purpose, to bare yourself in the way that matters most. It takes trust, and Grantaire has been running low on it today. But Enjolras’ fingers are still held close to Grantaire’s lips, and the long noodles he calls limbs are still thrown around him, grounding him, so Grantaire eventually says, “Well, you see me anyway.” </span>
</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p><br/>
<br/>
<br/>
</p><p>
  <span>“That one is straight up odd,” Grantaire says.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Enjolras can’t quite say he disagrees, but maybe Jehan was onto something when they recommended this particular position. Enjolras even suspects them to have calculated it all and taken into consideration the fact that Grantaire’s butt is very generously endowed —or “bootylicious”, according to Courfeyrac.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hmm, it </span>
  <em>
    <span>is</span>
  </em>
  <span>, but it’s also pretty damn comfortable,” Enjolras tells him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Grantaire throws him a look above his shoulder, looking back at him from where Enjolras is sprawled on his back, criss crossed from Grantaire, using his butt a pillow as he reads on something that looks so dry, even Grantaire wouldn’t dare opening it —and Grantaire makes a point to read especially boring books often. He blames it on his compulsive need to contradict everyone. If someone said it was a dry read, Grantaire </span>
  <em>
    <span>has</span>
  </em>
  <span> to read it to make a point. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Because he’s not only a contrary person, but also a self-appointed “little shit”, Grantaire wiggles his butt, shaking Enjolras’ pillow.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hey!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Don’t complain, I’m giving you the neck massage experience!” Grantaire retorts with a smirk. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Enjolras lifts his head up just long enough to swat Grantaire’s backside with his book.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“See, I was ready to give this a pretty good grade, but I’m gonna have to reconsider it now. My pillow is </span>
  <em>
    <span>jiggly</span>
  </em>
  <span>.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You really were gonna give this a good grade?” Grantaire asks, bemused. He would have thought Enjolras to be a bit more doubtful of Jehan’s suggestion —their input is always either truly enlightening, in the most cryptic of ways, or the oddest, most incomprehensible advice, and there is no in-between. The butt pillow cuddling positions hardly struck Grantaire as the former.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well yeah, have you seen your ass? Comfiest thing I’ve ever laid my head on. A solid 19.”  </span>
</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>
  <span>“Grantaire, I can’t do that one,” Enjolras says in the dark.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Grantaire huffs. He is half asleep, held back from Morpheus’ arms only because of the heat and his growing frustration at the way the bed sheets stick to him. He blinks lazily, thickly, because tiredness stings at his eyelids yet sleep eludes him. He’s feeling oddly angry at the temperature and the stifling air for keeping him and Enjolras apart, so cruelly far from one another, with only their hands touching, all clammy and gross. “You’ll be just as warm on your back than you are on your front, you know,” he says, but it comes out muffled and slurred from the way his cheek is mashed against the mattress.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They rarely sleep lying on their stomachs. Grantaire can fall asleep in pretty much any position —short perhaps of standing— but Enjolras is typically a back or side sleeper, and Grantaire has been glad to put his sleep chameleon abilities in profit of staying close to Enjolras, wrapping himself around him in all sort of ways.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s not the heat,” Enjolras mumbles, squirming uncomfortably. “It’s my breasts. It hurts to stay on my front for too long.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah.” There’s a sigh and Enjolras shifts, flopping onto his back gracelessly. His sweaty skin clings to the bedsheets and threatens to drag them with him. “I hate that. I hate the heat and I hate that it’s taking so long for me to get top surgery.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I know,” Grantaire says. He’s feeling much more awake already. “I’m sorry.” Because he is. Enjolras hasn’t always wanted to get top surgery. Up until his late 20s, he was rather fine with his breasts, with his body being the way it was. His first wish to go through the surgery had been mostly born out of convenience —boobs are heavy and bras are expensive, Enjolras’ words, not Grantaire’s— and the thought had grown from there, like an itch, until he’d simply had to go make medical appointments to get rid of them. Enjolras, however, has never been a patient man where trivial matters were concerned, and he is not about to be so when things are serious. He is quickly getting ansty, and Grantaire can only try to comfort him the best as he can, knowing he cannot understand Enjolras' struggle.<br/>
</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Your final appointment before the surgery is next week, though. I know it’s tough, but it’s getting there,” Grantaire starts again, reaching for Enjolras’ hand once more and bringing it to his lips in an awkward angle, now that they’re both flipped on different sides. He kisses it to soothe, to give strength he’s not sure he has, strength he wants to remind Enjolras he has in himself already. “And we’ll go buy a fan tomorrow.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Grantaire cannot see it, but he knows Enjolras is smiling in the dark. He drops his hand to turn on his back, and the air is still tacky and heavy, but it feels good to switch sides and unstick his chest from the mattress. In the dark, he reaches out once more, extends a hand and a foot to brush against Enjolras’, like ghost touches, silent, barely there contact to remind each other that they’re </span>
  <em>
    <span>there</span>
  </em>
  <span>. It’s not nearly enough, but it’s as good as they can manage in this heat. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re right, though. That position doesn’t even get a 10.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Enjolras snorts. “I don’t even give it a five.”</span>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
<br/>
</p>
<hr/><p><br/>
<br/>
<br/>
</p><p>
  <span>“Comfortable?” Enjolras asks, whispering right into Grantaire’s ear. From this close, Enjolras can see hair raising over Grantaire’s arms, goosebumps breaking out to the surface. He smiles.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Grantaire leans back, burrowing himself further into Enjolras’ warmth and ignoring Courfeyrac’s hollering in their direction. They’ve been together for months, now, but he still teases them at any given opportunity —his payback for the excruciating years of tiptoeing and unbearable sexual tension they inflicted onto everyone else, he says. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Very,” Grantaire says, because he is. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They’re all out of town for a week, a much deserved holiday in the south of France, and they’re staying at Jehan’s family home while their parents are travelling somewhere in the Caribbean. The property is big enough to host Les Amis twice over, with more rooms and corridors than Grantaire would ever know what to do with, but they spend most of their time outside, resting by the pool or in the orchard. They’re having a picnic there, that day, because the temperature has cooled just enough to make it bearable to stay outside. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Enjolras leans against one of the almond trees, his head pillowed on Grantaire’s balled-up shirt, while Grantaire leans into him between his legs. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s a touch too warm for them to be cuddling that way, but neither of them can find it in himself to care, especially when Grantaire twists his head just so to leave a tantalising kiss over the length of Enjolras’ neck. It is Enjolras’ turn to shiver. They’re both fighting dirty.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We should have thought this through, though,” Grantaire says after a while.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There’s a beat of silence as Enjolras processes Grantaire’s comment and the situation. He unwraps his arms from around Grantaire’s middle and tries to extend one out. He’s still short of several centimetres for him to reach the food that is laid out on the blanket. Grantaire tries too, to no avail. “Yeah.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Grantaire’s stomach grumbles pitifully, but he doesn’t make any move to go and Enjolras doesn’t make any move to release him from his grip. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Worth it anyway?” Enjolras offers.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Grantaire twists once more to get a look at Enjolras’ face. From this position, their faces are so close together, Grantaire’s eyes cross a little, but he doesn’t pull back. He reaches up just high enough to drop a featherlight kiss onto Enjolras’ lips.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Damn right, it is.” He smirks.</span>
</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>
  <span>Combeferre unlocks the door of Grantaire and Enjolras’ flat; his hands shake a little in anxiety while Courfeyrac breathes down his neck, half ready to push them both through the door.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You know, I’m still convinced that they’re just having raunchy sex right now and that answering our texts was the least of their priorities,” Courfeyrac says, poking Combeferre on the side. “It’s happened to me all the time.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Precisely,” Combeferre says, “it happens to </span>
  <em>
    <span>you</span>
  </em>
  <span>, and that’s generally what we assume when you go M.I.A.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Wait, so you wouldn’t go look for me if I disappeared? Because you’d think I’m busy fucking someone?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Combeferre shrugs. “Or getting fucked,” he offers. It </span>
  <em>
    <span>has</span>
  </em>
  <span> indeed happened to Courfeyrac multiple times, going AWOL for hours on end as he has his fun with whomever has invited him home. They were concerned, at first, but stopped worrying too much after their second year of university, which was almost a decade ago.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You know, I don’t know if I should feel flattered or insulted,” Courfeyrac comments.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re allowed to feel both,” Combeferre tells him helpfully. “But as I was saying, it happens to </span>
  <em>
    <span>you</span>
  </em>
  <span>, not to Grantaire and Enjolras. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Courfeyrac snorts. “Boooo,” he says. “Now come on, move out of the way. I want to see if they’ve been kidnapped or if they’re having a sex marathon.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>So Combeferre does, because he’ll confess he’s a bit curious, too. Enjolras not answering his usual morning texts is worrying. They have a settled routine, they’ve had this going on for years now: each morning, they both read the news and text each other afterwards to comment on what’s going on in the world, on the journalism work, the quality of the writing and what they could do to make a change. This habit of theirs has been mocked endlessly by Courfeyrac, but they keep at it religiously. In the decade since the beginning of their friendship, the instances of them skipping their morning news commentary can be counted on the fingers of one hand —once when Enjolras had appendicitis and was out of it after the surgery, another time on the day of the funeral of Combeferre’s grandma and another when Combeferre was travelling to see family in Senegal for a few weeks and had poor connection for about two days.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I really hope we don’t see them mid-sex marathon,” he says as he pushes the door open tentatively.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s because you’re no fun,” Courfeyrac quips, shouldering his way inside before Combeferre. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Combeferre knows Courfeyrac too well to dignify this with an answer. Instead, he calls out, “Enjolras?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>No answer comes, neither from Enjolras nor Grantaire. He calls again, this time for Grantaire, and at last he receives an answer, though the low groan and shuffling fabric he hears perhaps can’t quite warrant the name of “answer”. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“See? </span>
  <em>
    <span>Sex marathon</span>
  </em>
  <span>,” Courfeyrac whispers gleefully.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Courfeyrac, I beg of you, stop saying ‘sex marathon’,” Combeferre says, making his way shyly down the corridor behind Courfeyrac who is hurrying towards the living room, likely hoping to catch his friends in a compromising position. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Before he can see anything, Combeferre hears a low squeal escape Courfeyrac.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Combeferre, come and see! They’re so cute, I can’t even blame them for being boring,” he swoons, and he is clutching at his chest when Combeferre joins him behind the sofa. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>More quietly than Combeferre expected from Courfeyrac, but also just as dramatically as he expected from him, Courfeyrac points towards the sofa. “</span>
  <em>
    <span>Look</span>
  </em>
  <span>!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>So Combeferre does. He bends forward, looking over the back of the old, battered sofa —the one they’d found on the street years before, at 3am, during a memorable night out. They had just finished their exams and were celebrating the time they were looking forward to spending away from the library. They’d stumbled upon the sofa hours after leaving a crowded, stinky club, and Grantaire had sprawled upon it in spite of Joly’s serious reserve on the cleanliness of it, and he’d declared it his. In his drunken state, he’d decided that this sofa would be his until the end, and he’d asked Les Amis to carry it back to his flat where the sofa had barely fit at all. They’d all fallen asleep on it, around it,  against it, and Grantaire had adopted it. He’d gotten it cleaned later on, but he’d kept his word. The sofa had followed him everywhere, even when he’d moved in with Enjolras so shortly after they had decided to date —though Combeferre, much like the rest of Les Amis, would argue that they’d in fact been dating for years, only they’d been too stubborn to acknowledge it and reap the rewards of it. This had been Grantaire’s one requirement, one eccentricity —or so he claims, because Grantaire is nothing if not an eccentric man— and Enjolras had conceded. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Because this sofa is so precious to Grantaire, in spite of it being old, rugged and still having a bit of a smell to it, the image that meets Combeferre is all the more endearing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Grantaire is sprawled on his back, an arm messily thrown over his head and dangling from the armrest. His mouth is wide open, a curl or two of blond hair have found their way in it, and he’s in a deep, peaceful sleep.. And there, too, is Enjolras. He’s on his side, hovering dangerously over the end of the sofa. The only reason he hasn’t toppled off the sofa yet must be the arm Grantaire has wrapped firmly around his waist, holding him securely against himself. Enjolras’ hands are gripping Grantaire’s t-shirt, too, so tightly his knuckles have turned white, as if he was scared to be taken away from Grantaire in his sleep, and his head is nestled on Grantaire’s collarbone. From where he stands, and from the way Enjolras has tucked himself into his boyfriend, Combeferre cannot see Enjolras’ drool, but years of friendship tell him that Grantaire will undoubtedly wake up with a damp neck. Their legs, too, are tangled —Enjolras has thrown one over Grantaire’s and hooked it under Grantaire’s calf, and from the way Grantaire’s joggers have ridden up, Enjolras must have been rubbing his feet against him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Courfeyrac was right, the picture that they paint really is quite sweet. A quiet, unconscious show of blind, complete trust and easy love. He’s proud of his friends for reaching that point.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Combeferre winces when the quiet is broken abruptly by the shutter sound of Courfeyrac’s phone camera. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sorry, I had to immortalise it. I’m sure they’ll be happy about it later,” Courfeyrac says.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Combeferre hums noncommittally, because while he doesn’t want Courfeyrac to wake them up, he also agrees. He thinks he’d like to be portrayed like this, in such a candid, vulnerable moment, made so strong by the obvious love they have for one another.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Do you remember how Enjolras was worried, when they just started dating, that he wouldn’t get the whole couple-y thing, that he wouldn’t know how to do it?” Courfeyrac asks, thankfully no louder than a whisper. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Combeferre nods and whispers back. “Yeah, he was scared of his inexperience, that he’d be too aloof to get used to it and make Grantaire happy.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Such a dumbass. Enjolras could be eating his own booger and Grantaire would be happy about it. As far as he is concerned, the sun has stopped rising in the East every morning, it just shines out of Enjolras’ ass.” Courfeyrac snorts, and Combeferre has to chuckle, too —he really isn’t that far off.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, anyway,” Courfeyrac continues, “Enjolras was being such an idiot, and look at him— them. They almost have me or Bahorel beat— they’re cuddling professionals already.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Piss off,” comes Grantaire’s voice, and Courfeyrac only doesn’t jump because Combeferre steadies himself on his shoulder. He’s not loud, and he’s purposely not moving (probably so as not to wake Enjolras up), but he does crack an eye open and frees one of his hands to flip the bird to Courfeyrac. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Courfeyrac does jump when Enjolras says from his spot in the crook of Grantaire's neck, eyes still shut, “We totally beat you.” Grantaire smiles when Enjolras lifts his head up to look at him with the bleary eyes of someone woken up too early. "Grantaire?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Grantaire hums. "Yeah?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Enjolras presses a quick kiss to Grantaire's neck and he feels his hum resonate in his own lips. "I think this one is my favourite yet."</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Please remember us writers are mostly human and that we, too, thrive on kind words and validation! If you enjoy what you read, please consider leaving a long ass comment on what you liked, or a very short comment with one word and your favourite emoji, or just one letter, whichever looks the cutest to you? I personally also accept keysmash, inane screaming, the biography of some obscure Czeck poet of your choice, a care package composed of 95% Swiss chocolate (I like milk chocolate best. Go crazy with the last 5%), a car (kidding, I'm gay, I can't drive rwhsrhe) OR Jeff Bezos' bank details! </p><p>Thank you for reading, byyyyye</p><p> </p><p>You can find me on <a href="https://brie-on-bread.tumblr.com">my main Tumblr</a> and on <a href="https://les-amis-dcd.tumblr.com">my Les Mis one</a>!</p></blockquote></div></div>
</body>
</html>